she is the one
by a can of tuna
Summary: happenstance occurs only so many times or what i should have said, if i could say it — AruAni, sorta.


_Completely random, i have gravitated towards this pairing for a while, but refrained from writing them, because i am a messy writer._

_Tell me what you think, won't you? Might have mistakes, so to edit further later._

**_Inspired (the whole plot taken by) by: Haruki Murakami's 'On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning.'_**

_Standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

The bitter wind of Winter nipped at Armin's exposed ears, turning it a bright shade of scarlet. Even for a supposed April morning, the wind was too biting and brisk for him to handle, only equipped with a light jacket and flimsy light blue scarf. He was walking nowhere in particular, there was still sometime left before he had to go see his editor and give the manuscript, he figured, while he was in the city why not enjoy a nice outing.

So he walked, as far as his legs would take him before he didn't know where he was anymore, and right in front of him stood a point of salvation, a small coffee shop, with an open sign.

He walked in slowly, and closed the door, thanking the high heavens for some warmth the cozy place had to offer him and walked to the counter to order a coffee, nothing fancy, a medium, light with milk and two sugars, keep him sated and warm until noon. The counter girl rang him up and delivered it to him within a minute, he took slow, sips and savored the taste of richness on his tongue and the caffeine rush in his system. He walked to the seat on the last end of the booth, that overlooked the modern city and that was when he saw her.

She was the one, and he knew it, absolutely, 100% perfect girl for him. She stood across the street in a white winter coat and her flaxen hair blowing in all directions. She was perfect, with her eyes downcast and her expression icy, and he almost drops his coffee on his beige chino pants, when he looks up from wiping the spill, she is gone.

* * *

He rushes through the appointment, inconspicuously of course, the eccentric woman with her expensive Prada reading glasses, gushes to him about the short novel, admiration and pride in her eyes and voice, _you finally finished it, I am so proud of you!_

He needs all the same, thinking of her and only her. The publishers check arrives on his hand and he is being led out the door by his flamboyant editor to join a few of their acquaintances for lunch. He can't help but think of the chances of seeing her again, and like some oddly other world fiction, he sees her there, donning simplistic clothes and in the company of two well-built men.

Her eyes don't stray from her plate of filet mignon while the blonde and bulkier of the two men, gesticulated a larger than life story and he feels envious. He believes his gaze has lingered for too long, as both the patrons and the girl herself stares at him oddly, with tinted cheeks he looks away to Jean, who was sitting opposite him with a bruised jaw.

He wondered briefly what the story behind that was.

* * *

It's a few weeks later, the publishing house is throwing him a party, for writing one of the "most gripping and compelling novels" in the century, some reviews, he believes are just boisterously unbelievable, especially when Eren is reading them.

He puts on the black suit, and his shoulder length blonde hair is put in a half ponytail, he checks himself in the full body mirror and spritzes cologne on the collar of his crisp white shirt.

He heads out sometime later, with his cell phone balanced between his ear and shoulder and he is power walking to the event hall, desperately late, and terrified because the party was organized by his psuedo brother-in-law.

He makes it in, with a hairs breadth of a minute to spare, everyone stands up and claps happily for his, as his editor, Hanji Zoe, claps the loudest on stage, he looks to the front most table to see Eren and his shining green eyes and Mikasa with her rare smile, decked out pretty in a simple red evening gown and next to her the party planner, and Mikasa's husband, Levi, who stares him down for being late to his own party. _Of course, he'd notice._

He pockets his cellphone discreetly, avoiding the steely glare and obvious attention put on him and gives a bogus speech. He is led to the front table with the in-crowd, Jean clasps his shoulder and everyone is all smiles, until the food comes, and he sees small, pale hands, with black polished nails, setting down a plate in front of him and he follows the hand up to the attached body and spills the wine glass he had held on the table.

It was her, she was here, how many times is it happenstance until it's not, he is a writer, he knows, fate plays into this very closely and for the first time in a long time, he is nervous because she glared at him, while Levi scoffs and mutters shitty brat under his breath, and another waiter is coming into clean up the table and she walks off, nonchalantly.

* * *

It finally feels like April, though it was almost ending. The atmosphere was damp with rain not fallen and humid, making the hair on his shoulders stick to his nape, he wasn't particularly busy nor was he waiting for someone, but something told him, a gut instinct of sorts, that today he should be at this park, at this time, at this very spot.

He waited a complete two hours to nothing, looking around the giant trees, and empty benches, and even emptier scenery with the occasional owner and dog. His eyes fall on a small figure in white, she is wearing a white cardigan and jogging shorts, a manila envelope in her hand and she was walking right past him. Of course he knew what to say, but in actual reality he could have never delivered it so perfectly and poignantly.

It would be a small story that would start 'once upon a time,' and ended with, 'sad story, isn't it?'

Once upon a time, a boy and a girl, both fifteen, meeting on a winding road by chance and stopped everything they were doing and put their life on hold. He would lead her by the palm of his hands resting on her wrist in a firm hold, to a small park and they would sit down and discuss every little secret that was in their mind.

They would be perfect for each other and their very simultaneous thoughts would be their connection as soul mates, the very chance of finding the perfect person for themselves, a miracle that would only occur when fate had its hands tied, if only for a minute, a cosmic miracle, really.

And they, naïve, young and in-love would put it to the test, "Let's see if we were really perfect for each other, we'd meet again, someday, and get married." And they would, unbeknownst to them, part for a lifetime, away from one another, he in the north and she, the south. Fate can be cruel and unmerciful, because it never fails twice.

And here they were, awaiting their reunion, when tragedy strikes and they both meet separate accidents, another cosmic intervention, and lose all memories of that very moment, when they were fifteen and never to remember it again. And, by some chance one day, the boy walked from the north to the south in search of coffee to start the day and the girl awaited the arrival of old company, and he sees her from far away, nestled in warmth, while she stood out in the frigid cold, and his eyes glow dimly with memories unremembered and she meets his gaze from across the street.

And they realize again, that; he/she is perfect for me. But sadly, that flicker was to dim and she disperses in the crowd and he heads up north, and they pass as nothing but strangers.

A sad story, indeed.

And that's what he should have told her.

* * *

_Sequel?_


End file.
